


If Only

by MadClairvoyant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadClairvoyant/pseuds/MadClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimmauld Place was haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

It wasn’t the dids and happeneds that hurt most; it was the ifs and maybes, because he always wondered if he could have done something. 

 

* * *

 

 

He turned round the corner, ending up in the kitchen. If he squinted at the counter for a long period of time, he could just _see_ a small, dark-haired boy tiptoeing to get at a jar, to steal the cookies in it, careful to take enough for his little brother too.

 

The younger boy had rejected him, hissing angrily about punishments and turned away, not seeing the hurt and anger. It was his very first mistake.

 

* * *

  

The cupboard under the stairs was cramped, and he found that he could only crouch down, trying not to hit anything important, like his head. In the pitch blackness, he wondered if he was going mad, to wander around this house, seeing ghosts everywhere.

 

An imperious young girl with wild dark hair squatted at the far end, which wasn’t actually so far, considering the size of the damned thing. Her face was classically beautiful, matching that of the boy she was tormenting. Of course she took pride in torturing him, a hint of cruelty in her black eyes as she sneered at the pathetic, sniveling coward. 

 

Suddenly, the door was wrenched open, and an older boy stood there, hands on his hips and glaring at the girl. He reached forward to help the little boy up, only to recoil at the disgust on his face. “I don’t need your help.”

 

* * *

 

Childish laughter rang through the air, and he peered over the dusty glass, to see faint figures in the backyard. Widening his eyes, he stared intently at the dying grass, and as if by magic, the shapes of little ones could be seen. They were spinning and twirling, the dark haired girl cackling madly and chasing the little blonde one, a brown haired, softer one smiling at a mutinous looking boy. His jaw was clenched, and he stomped his foot in frustration. She leant forward to whisper in his ears, but he merely shook his head angrily.

 

Watching them closely, he realized that the boy was shooting furious glances at a younger one, who was virtually his carbon copy, but smiling widely and clapping his hands. They followed a steady beat, and it seemed as though the girls were doing a mad rain dance in time. His heart clenched painfully as he saw how the boy shot a derisive look at his older brother, and smirked at his fury before turning back to their childhood companions.

 

* * *

 

 

The people were older now. It seemed as though it was a party. He still remembered them, where the older aunts were thin and severe, muttering under their breaths, and uncles half-drunk and laughing. His own parents were stiff and formal, and the not-quite-children-anymore had to behave themselves under their watchful eyes. A wistful smile spread across his face as he watched the now-familiar boy waltz gracefully across the room, politely inquiring after one of their aunts, and receiving a disdainful nod of approval. Smiling widely, he seemed to crow silently with achievement as he glanced at his older brother, who was being discreetly reprimanded by their formidable mother before being sent upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

Sighing tiredly, he collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Why had he done all those things? It was those petty childhood grudges that drove a wedge between the children, shaping them and moulding them into strange foreign things; shadows of the brightness.         

 

As he watched the apparitions of his mind, he carefully avoided giving them names, because it sullied the happiness by what was to come. If he gave them names, he couldn’t forget what their final choice was.

 

If he called the black-haired imp Bellatrix, then in her cruel smile he could only see her madness. If he called the brown-haired nymph Andromeda, he could only see a girl who had thought so little of her family. If he called the blonde waif Narcissa, he could only see misplaced arrogance. If he called the mercurial child Sirius, he could only see a brother who turned his back on them.

 

Worst of all, if he called the spiteful little thing Regulus, he could only see a foolish coward who brought this on himself.

 

 

Grimmauld Place was dark, and dusty, and filled with ghosts, just as their guests had whispered. Except they weren’t the kind that were expected.

 

This terrible place was haunted not by the deceased, but by their memories, and all the ifs and maybes and coulds.

 

It was infinitely more painful.


End file.
